应力和应变的关系公式:乔布斯妹妹悼词（中英双语）

乔布斯妹妹悼词（中英双语）

此文为乔布斯的妹妹、小说家梦娜·辛普森在10月16日位于斯坦福大学纪念教堂举办的乔布斯道别仪式上发表的悼词。原文发表于《纽约时报》。

先中文，后英文原文。

文 / Mona Simpson

我是家中的独生女，跟单身母亲长大。父亲是叙利亚移民，小时候我们家很穷，由于这两个原因，我把他想像成奥玛·沙里夫（埃及影星，主演过《阿拉伯的劳伦斯》、《日瓦格医生》等片）的样子。当时我希望他早日发达，然后大发善心，拯救我们那家徒四壁的生活。终于遇到了父亲之后，我尽量说服自己相信他是一个密谋为阿拉伯人民建立新世界的理想主义革命分子，所以才要改头换面。

虽然身为女性主义者，但我一辈子都在等待一个值得我爱，也爱我的男人。几十年来，我一直觉得父亲就是那个男人。25岁那年，我遇到了他，我的哥哥。

那时我住在纽约，正在写第一本小说。我在一家小杂志社上班，办公室比衣柜大不了多少，连我一共坐了四个人，都是充满抱负的文学青年。一天，我接到一位律师打来的电话，说他一个富有而显赫的客户是我失散多年的哥哥──当时的我还是一个加州来的中产女生，整天缠着老板给我买医保。年轻的编辑们沸腾了。那是 1985年，我们编的是一本前卫文学杂志，而我却仿佛进入了狄更斯小说中的情节。（说真的，我们最爱的还是那些小说。）律师没有透露我哥哥的名字，于是同事们打起赌来。得票最多的是约翰·屈伏塔（John Travolta）。内心深处我暗暗希望他是一个能在文学上继承亨利·詹姆斯的传统的人：一个才华比我高、举重若轻的作家。

我第一次见到史蒂夫时，他跟我差不多大，穿着牛仔裤，阿拉伯或犹太长相，比奥玛·沙里夫更帅。

我们一起散步，走了很久——他和我一样喜欢散步。我不太记得那天说了什么，只记得他让人感觉是那种我会愿意与之做朋友的人。他花了些时间向我解释自己是做电脑的。

当时我不太了解电脑。我还在用Olivetti牌的手动打字机。

我跟史蒂夫说打算买一台Cromemco型号的电脑。

史蒂夫说你等到现在是对的。他说他正在做的电脑会漂亮到爆。

我想跟各位分享自己从史蒂夫那里学到的一些东西。我认识他27年，其中可以分为三个时期。不是按年来分，是按生存状态：人生完整的时期、与病魔战斗的时期、垂死时期。

史蒂夫只做他热爱的事。他工作极其努力，天天如此。

这话说来无比简单，但也无比真实。

他是三心二意的对立面。

他不会为努力工作而感到尴尬，哪怕结果是失败。如果像史蒂夫这么聪明的人都不会耻于承认自己的努力曾经失败，或许我也不必感到羞耻。

他被踢出苹果后非常痛苦。我听他提到过一场晚宴，嘉宾包括五百名硅谷领袖，以及当时的总统。没有人邀请他。

他很受伤，但仍然去 NeXT上班。天天如此。

史蒂夫最大的价值不在于新，而在于美。

有一点很特别：以一个创新者而言，史蒂夫并不喜新厌旧。如果他喜欢某件衣服，就会订上十件、一百件。在他帕洛奥托家中的黑色圆领羊毛衫的数量大概足够分给这间教堂里每人一件。

他不喜欢一时的潮流或是奇技淫巧。他喜欢同龄人。

他的美学理念让我想到一句话：“初看美丽，随后变丑的，是时尚；初看或许丑陋，但随后显示出美的，是艺术。”

史蒂夫总是希望创造出那种“随后显示出美”的东西。

他不介意被误解。

他没有得到晚宴邀请，便开着黑色跑车去NeXT工作，他一直开同一款跑车，那辆已经是第三还是第四代了。在NeXT的办公室里，他和团队静静地创造着。多年以后，添姆·伯纳斯·李在他们发明的电脑上写下了万维网的代码。

史蒂夫谈论爱情时像个小女生。爱是他的最高美德，他的众神之神。他会关注同事的感情生活，为他们操心。

每当他看到他认为会受女性欢迎的男性时，就会直接了当地问：“兄弟，有女朋友吗？要不要跟我妹妹一起吃饭？”

记得他遇到劳伦那天打电话给我。“我遇到一个美女，无比聪明，养了只狗，我要娶她。”

里德出生时，他开始滔滔不绝，从未停止。他是个实打实的父亲，对每个孩子都如此。他操心丽萨的男友，艾琳的出游计划和裙子的长度，以及伊芙跟她喜爱的马匹玩耍时的安全问题。

我们这些参加过里德毕业派对的人，一辈子也忘不了里德和史蒂夫父子两人慢舞的场面。

他对劳伦的爱矢志不渝，这份爱成了维系他的动力。他相信爱无时、无处不在。这是最重要的一点。了解了这点，你就会知道史蒂夫不刻薄、不犬儒、不悲观，从不。我一直试图学习这点，直到现在。

史蒂夫年轻时就已名利双收，他认为这一点令他与众人孤立。自我认识他以来，他做的大多数决定都是为了溶解身边的这堵墙。一个来自洛斯奥托的中产男生，爱上了一个来自新泽西的中产女生，两人知道，必须把丽萨、里德、艾琳和伊芙培养成脚踏实地的普通人。他们家没有让人产生距离感的艺术品或装饰物。事实上，我最初认识史蒂夫和劳伦那几年，他们一直在草地上吃晚餐，有时整餐只吃一种蔬菜。分量很大，但除了蔬菜不吃别的。西兰花、季节性蔬菜，做法简单，还有刚刚摘下的新鲜香料。

虽然他年纪轻轻就已是百万富翁，但史蒂夫总是去机场接我，穿着牛仔裤站在那里。

如果上班时有家人打电话去，他的秘书琳奈塔会帮他接听，“你爸爸在开会。要我叫他吗？”

万圣节时，里德会要求打扮成巫师，这时史蒂夫、劳伦、艾琳和伊芙都会装成巫术世界里的角色。

有一次他们要重新装修厨房，最后花了几年才完工。其间他们在车库中用一块加热的铁盘做饭。同期动工的皮克斯大楼只花了一半时间。而且他们家只改了厨房而已。卫生间完全没有动过。但它一开始就是一栋非常棒的房子，史蒂夫花了很多心思。

并不是说他不享受成功；他非常享受，但程度上要减少几个零。他跟我说过自己最爱跑到帕洛奥托的单车店里得意地想：这里最好的单车我也买得起。

Steve cultivated whimsy. What other C.E.O. knows the history of English and Chinese tea roses and has a favorite David Austin rose?

He had surprises tucked in all his pockets. I’ll venture that Laurene will discover treats-songs he loved, a poem he cut out and put in a drawer-even after 20 years of an exceptionally close marriage. I spoke to him every other day or so, but when I opened The New York Times and saw a feature on the company’s patents, I was still surprised and delighted to see a sketch for a perfect staircase.

With his four children, with his wife, with all of us, Steve had a lot of fun.

He treasured happiness.

Then, Steve became ill and we watched his life compress into a smaller circle. Once, he’d loved walking through Paris. He’d discovered a small handmade soba shop in Kyoto. He downhill skied gracefully. He cross-country skied clumsily. No more.

Eventually, even ordinary pleasures, like a good peach, no longer appealed to him.

Yet, what amazed me, and what I learned from his illness, was how much was still left after so much had been taken away.

I remember my brother learning to walk again, with a chair. After his liver transplant, once a day he would get up on legs that seemed too thin to bear him, arms pitched to the chair back. He’d push that chair down the Memphis hospital corridor towards the nursing station and then he’d sit down on the chair, rest, turn around and walk back again. He counted his steps and, each day, pressed a little farther.

Laurene got down on her knees and looked into his eyes.

“You can do this, Steve,” she said. His eyes widened. His lips pressed into each other.

He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that effort. He was an intensely emotional man.

I realized during that terrifying time that Steve was not enduring the pain for himself. He set destinations: his son Reed’s graduation from high school, his daughter Erin’s trip to Kyoto, the launching of a boat he was building on which he planned to take his family around the world and where he hoped he and Laurene would someday retire.

Even ill, his taste, his discrimination and his judgment held. He went through 67 nurses before finding kindred spirits and then he completely trusted the three who stayed with him to the end. Tracy. Arturo. Elham.

One time when Steve had contracted a tenacious pneumonia his doctor forbid everything-even ice. We were in a standard I.C.U. unit. Steve, who generally disliked cutting in line or dropping his own name, confessed that this once, he’d like to be treated a little specially.

I told him: Steve, this is special treatment.

He leaned over to me, and said: “I want it to be a little more special.”

Intubated, when he couldn’t talk, he asked for a notepad. He sketched devices to hold an iPad in a hospital bed. He designed new fluid monitors and x-ray equipment. He redrew that not-quite-special-enough hospital unit. And every time his wife walked into the room, I watched his smile remake itself on his face.

For the really big, big things, you have to trust me, he wrote on his sketchpad. He looked up. You have to.

By that, he meant that we should disobey the doctors and give him a piece of ice.

None of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here. On Steve’s better days, even in the last year, he embarked upon projects and elicited promises from his friends at Apple to finish them. Some boat builders in the Netherlands have a gorgeous stainless steel hull ready to be covered with the finishing wood. His three daughters remain unmarried, his two youngest still girls, and he’d wanted to walk them down the aisle as he’d walked me the day of my wedding.

We all-in the end-die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories.

I suppose it’s not quite accurate to call the death of someone who lived with cancer for years unexpected, but Steve’s death was unexpected for us.

What I learned from my brother’s death was that character is essential: What he was, was how he died.

Tuesday morning, he called me to ask me to hurry up to Palo Alto. His tone was affectionate, dear, loving, but like someone whose luggage was already strapped onto the vehicle, who was already on the beginning of his journey, even as he was sorry, truly deeply sorry, to be leaving us.

He started his farewell and I stopped him. I said, “Wait. I’m coming. I’m in a taxi to the airport. I’ll be there.”

“I’m telling you now because I’m afraid you won’t make it on time, honey.”

When I arrived, he and his Laurene were joking together like partners who’d lived and worked together every day of their lives. He looked into his children’s eyes as if he couldn’t unlock his gaze.

Until about 2 in the afternoon, his wife could rouse him, to talk to his friends from Apple.

Then, after awhile, it was clear that he would no longer wake to us.

His breathing changed. It became severe, deliberate, purposeful. I could feel him counting his steps again, pushing farther than before.

This is what I learned: he was working at this, too. Death didn’t happen to Steve, he achieved it.

He told me, when he was saying goodbye and telling me he was sorry, so sorry we wouldn’t be able to be old together as we’d always planned, that he was going to a better place.

Dr. Fischer gave him a 50/50 chance of making it through the night.

He made it through the night, Laurene next to him on the bed sometimes jerked up when there was a longer pause between his breaths. She and I looked at each other, then he would heave a deep breath and begin again.

This had to be done. Even now, he had a stern, still handsome profile, the profile of an absolutist, a romantic. His breath indicated an arduous journey, some steep path, altitude.

He seemed to be climbing.

But with that will, that work ethic, that strength, there was also sweet Steve’s capacity for wonderment, the artist’s belief in the ideal, the still more beautiful later.

Steve’s final words, hours earlier, were monosyllables, repeated three times.

Before embarking, he’d looked at his sister Patty, then for a long time at his children, then at his life’s partner, Laurene, and then over their shoulders past them.

Steve’s final words were:

OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW.